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Aileen Aroon, A Memoir. Stables Gordon
Читать онлайн.Название Aileen Aroon, A Memoir
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Автор произведения Stables Gordon
Жанр Природа и животные
Издательство Public Domain
Dick was extremely inquisitive and must see into everything. He used to annoy the cat very much by opening out her toes, or even her nostrils, to examine; and at times pussy used to lose patience, and pat him on the back.
“Eh?” he would say. “What is it? You rascal!” If two people were talking together underneath his cage, he would cock his head, lengthen his neck, and looking down quizzingly, say: “Eh? What is it? What do you say?”
He frequently began a sentence with the verb, “Is,” putting great emphasis on it. “Is?” he would say musingly.
“Is what, Dick?” I would ask.
“Is,” he would repeat – “Is the darling starling a pretty pet?”
“No question about it,” I would answer.
He certainly made the best of his vocabulary, for he trotted out all his nouns and all his adjectives time about in pairs, and formed a hundred curious combinations.
“Is,” he asked one day, “the darling doctor a rascal?”
“Just as you think,” I replied.
“Tse! tse! tse! Whew! whew! whew!” said Dick; and finished off with “Duncan Grey” and the first half of “The Sprig of Shillelah.”
“Love is the soul of a nate Irishman,” he had been taught to say; but it was as frequently, “Love is the soul of a nate Irish starling;” or, “Is love the soul of a darling pretty Dick?” and so on.
One curious thing is worth noting: he never pronounced my dog’s name – Theodore Nero – once while awake; but he often startled us at night by calling the dog in clear ringing tones – talking in his sleep. He used to be chattering and singing without intermission all day long; and if ever he was silent then I knew he was doing mischief; and if I went quietly into the kitchen, I was sure to find him either tracing patterns on a bar of soap, or examining and tearing to pieces a parcel of newly-arrived groceries. He was very fond of wines and spirits, but knew when he had enough. He was not permitted to come into the parlour without his cage; but sometimes at dinner, if the door were left ajar, he would silently enter like a little thief; when once fairly in, he would fly on to the table, scream, and defy me. He was very fond of a pretty child that used to come to see me. If Matty was lying on the sofa reading, Dick would come and sing on her head; then he would go through all the motions of washing and bathing on Matty’s bonnie hair; which was, I thought, paying her a very pretty compliment.
When the sun shone in at my study window, I used to hang Dick’s cage there, as a treat to him. Dick would remain quiet for perhaps twenty minutes, then the stillness would feel irksome to him, and presently he would stretch his head down towards me in a confidential sort of way, and begin to pester me with his silly questions.
“Doctor,” he would commence, “is it, is it a nate Irish pet?”
“Silence, and go asleep,” I would make answer. “I want to write.”
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